Bungees
by Black Wolf's Shadow
Summary: Sam really thought it was a good idea. Dean nearly dies laughing. Mild spoiler for something from 5x9 The Real Ghostbusters, no plot spoilers though.


"Dude, what the hell?!" Dean exclaimed, dropping their supposed 'dinner' on the crappy table before rushing further into the room, slamming the door behind himself. Sam was crouched, one knee on the floor, his back to Dean, in the middle of the room; he was holding one hand to his forehead and even from the door, Dean could see the blood. He crouched next to his brother, placing a steadying hand on his broad shoulder as he craned to see the damage. "What happened?"

"Don't wanna talk about it," Sam said grouchily, opening one eye to look at his brother. "'M fine, Dean." He shrugged off his brother's hand, rising unsteadily to his feet; Dean replaced the hand, keeping a wary grip on his brother's elbow.

"C'mere, sit down," Dean instructed, ignoring his brother's petulant attempts to pull away; he shoved the taller man down onto a bed and pulled his covering hand away. There was a pretty nice cut just above his brother's eyebrow, as well as some deep redness that Dean was certain would turn to bruises soon. He rummaged the first aid kit out of his duffel and grabbed a clean cloth, handing it to Sam who pressed it to his head.

"Not horrible but not good, either," Dean informed him. "The hell were you doing?"

"Can you just let it go and fix it?" Sam asked plaintively. Dean paused, hands stilling as he dug through the kit; Sam sounded about six years old. Dean knew that tone. He turned slowly back to his brother, a slow grin building on his face. Sam caught the look and groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"C'mon, Sammy, what'd you do? It can't be as bad as the time you tried to glue dad's gun back together after you 'broke' it," Dean teased. Sam didn't raise his head as he replied; that was far from a new taunt.

"I was five, Dean. How was I supposed to know that the parts slid back together and that it wasn't actually broken? I was terrified dad was going to kill me."

Dean snickered at the memory of a terrified Sam rushing up to his brother, holding the broken pieces in his hands and begging Dean to help him put it back together because the glue wasn't working. "That was priceless. But you're avoiding the question."

Sam groaned again. "Can you please just drop it?"

"No can do, Sammy!" Dean said cheerfully, all the more certain that this story was going to be good; Sam never put up this much of an argument unless he'd done something particularly embarrassing. "Either you tell me what you were doing, or you fix yourself up."

Sam was silent for a moment, the hissed out a string of expletives about Dean as he pointed to the end of the other bed. Dean headed for it, throwing him a curious look when he saw nothing.

"It's under the bed, you ass," Sam snarled. Dean hid a smile as he turned and crouched to grope under the bed; his searching hand closed over something cold and very solid. Dragging it out, he was surprised to see a fire iron.

"Did you bash yourself in the head with this? That's pretty bad, Sammy, even for you. Why the hell do you have this, anyway?" Dean asked, turning to face his brother again. Sam's face was screwed up; he gestured again at the iron Dean was holding. The older brother turned to look at the makeshift weapon again, then saw the cord dangling off one end; he pulled the free end, watched as it stretched. It took him a second to understand. When he got it, he turned that part-superior-part-incredulous-all-amused look that Sam hated so much on his brother. Sam growled and rose, grabbing the kit and striding into the bathroom. Dean followed, shoving a hand against the door when Sam tried to slam it closed.

"Seriously, dude? Are you freaking serious?" Dean snickered, staring incredulously at the iron in his hand. Snickering turned into laughter until Dean was gasping for breath, barely able to stand on his feet.

"Screw you, Dean," Sam spat, examining his face in the mirror.

"Sammy, you know that guy wasn't actually serious about putting bungees on our weapons, right?" Dean asked, panting for breath, hands on his knees to support himself.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Sam muttered. Dean snorted again, managed to control himself this time. He saw Sam fumbling through the kit one-handed, coming away with floss and their pack of sterilized needles. He stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder; Sam shrugged it off again, so Dean snatched the supplies out of his hand. Sam turned on him furiously.

"I swear to God, Dean, if you don't give those back-" he started.

"Relax, Sam," Dean cut him off, holding up his free hand. "Sit," he jerked his head toward the toilet. Sam stared at him for a moment, then maneuvered to sit on the lid. Dean set the iron on the sink, fighting a smile when the cord dangled over the side, then rummaged through the kit again to come up with their small bottle of pills. "Here," he said, shoving the bottle at Sam.

"Save it," the younger replied, waving it off.

Fighting a smile of pride, Dean asked, just to be sure, "You sure?" Sam's reply was a silent nod. "All right," Dean said, putting it away. He pulled out some floss and one of the needles, rinsing them both with the last of the rubbing alcohol. When they were reasonably dry, he threaded the needle and stepped over to Sam, who turned his face up and pulled the towel away.

"Ready?" Dean asked, free hand stabilizing his brother's face; Sam closed his eyes.

"Yeah," he sighed, clenching his hands in his lap. The muscles in his jaw twitched with each pull of the needle, but he never moved. Dean was careful to make the stitches as even and small as possible but he knew Sam would still have yet another scar.

"Done," he said, tossing the rest of the floss into the trash and rinsing his bloodied hands in the sink. He dried them, smacked Sam's inspecting hand away from his newest injury, and covered the stitching with a bandage. He looked down fondly at his younger brother still sitting on the toilet, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar; the corners of his mouth turned up as he lifted Sam's face up to see him. He shook his head, chuckling softly. "No more bungee irons, all right? In fact, no more bungee anything. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam said ruefully, rising and exiting the bathroom.

Dean chuckled to himself again. "Bobby is gonna love this one."


End file.
